Sometimes, I cradle Sir Moon in my arms,
And half-whisper him to sleep.

I haven't seen that man in his own,
For too long.
So, when he's blue,
We nap together.

Sometimes, the moon melts,
Into puddles on lakes,
And ripples out into forever.
Hadn't smelled a ripple,
Until that very first night.

Smells like ink would - I think
Were the ink frozen.

But, every so often,
The moon is fine,
Full, after its harvest of,
The month's reverb.
And, on that night,
Is when I dance in full-flight,

Crazy, in the moon's elixir.

---

The night makes us mad.
The moon makes us loony.

Perhaps, that explains a lot.